Shades of Red and Grey
by Ellislash
Summary: Good deeds are complicated. AU, OOC!Nick, almost completely a true story. Adult language, gore. The characters belong to Valve.


Senior year of high school was almost over. A gentle May heat rippled over the asphalt as Ellis walked home, humming to himself and bouncing his near-empty backpack with every step. His boots skipped lightly along the sidewalk, buoyed by the prospect of a nice long afternoon with his '71 Mustang. If everything went as planned, he'd be able to take it out for its first test drive on Saturday.

He turned a corner and continued down the street, pleasantly preoccupied with thoughts of serpentine belts and spark plugs. It was only as he approached the basketball park that his attention strayed, caught by a flurry of violent motion that was incongruous with the usual hustle of friendly pick-up games. Ellis blinked and slowed his pace, swiveling his head for a better view as he came abreast of the disturbance. Behind the high chain-link fence he saw a group of boys about his own age, gathered in a loose circle while one of their number flailed viciously at something on the ground. Ellis couldn't make out their faces, but as he drew nearer he was stunned to see that the target of their violence was another young man. He struggled to fight back as his assailant's shoe repeatedly impacted his face, drawing spurts of bright red that his audience could see even at this distance. Each strike was accompanied by a muffled grunt of pain.

Ellis quickened his stride, reaching for his phone as the beating continued. He had 90% of a mind to call the cops, but as he approached the corner he spotted a middle-aged woman already talking frantically into her cell. His eyes flicked back to the fight, and his hand abruptly changed course from one pocket to another.

The bully had stepped back, arms spread aggressively as his buddies broke formation. Their victim staggered to his feet, half his face glazed with blood, and spat at the other's feet before unsteadily grabbing a backpack from the ground. Ellis dug for his first-aid kit, already assessing the damage and feeling incredulous that he seemed to be the only onlooker actually _doing_ something.

"...goddamn nigger!" he heard the bloody young man snarl. The victor laughed humorlessly.

"Run home to ya momma, faggot!" came the ugly reply. The other boys guffawed as they swaggered away.

Ellis reached out a hand as the injured party made as if to charge back into the fray. It didn't take much to restrain him – his bare arm was hot and trembling, and the touch made him flinch as calloused fingers grazed raw skin.

"Hey, man, yew don' look so good," Ellis muttered soothingly, drawing the black-haired boy towards the crosswalk. His only thought was to get home – instinct demanded that he take care of this person, stranger or no. "C'mon, let's getcha patched up..."

"I... what..." his charge stammered, slurring over a split lip. "What happened?"

"Yew jus' got th' crap kicked outta ya," Ellis answered, pushing the button for a walk signal with the hand not wrapped firmly around his companion's bicep.

"Wh... I just got jumped? Are you serious?"

"Looks that way," Ellis replied, using a tissue to clean blood from his new friend's unshaven chin while they waited for the light to change. "Yer from up north, huh? Whuss yer name?"

"Uh... uh, Nick. What's yours?"

"I''m-" Ellis paused, glancing back towards the toughs still lazing about on the court. "Jeremy. Y'all c'n call me Jer if ya want. Nice ta meetcha, Nick."

"Nice to meet you, too, Jeremy," Nick said, clearly on autopilot, and stuck out an unsteady hand to shake. "What just happened?"

"Yew got beat up, man," Ellis answered slowly, and tugged on the offered hand as the signal began to chirp.

"What? Seriously?" The northerner was just as shocked as he'd been thirty seconds ago. "By who?"

"I dunno, buncha kids."

"How many?"

"Four or five of 'em, but only one was really whalin' on ya."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"What happened? Did I just get jumped? Where's my phone?"

Ellis glanced at him as they walked, unsurprised. Nick had a massive lump at the corner of his left eye, split open in a nasty laceration that ran blood down his face. A hit like that could easily cause a concussion.

The brunette sighed, resigned to that special kind of patience that usually only psychologists and kindergarten teachers are blessed with. "Yew got beat up in th' park. Yer phone's in yer bag, I think."

"What park? By who?" Nick tugged free of his medic's arm to start digging frantically through his backpack. "I swear if they took my phone, I'm gonna go back and get it..."

"No ya won't, 'cuz it's right here, look," Ellis said soothingly, pointing to the cracked Blackberry peeking out from behind a wad of hundred-dollar bills. He very firmly refused to think about those, though part of him was honestly surprised by the absence of a firearm.

"Oh... good..." the other boy muttered. He pulled out the phone, swore a little at the state of its screen, and tucked it away again. "What happened?"

"Yew got beat up," the southerner explained calmly. "Yew were at th' basketball court, an' four or five guys were kickin' yew. I dunno why, but we're gonna getcha fixed up, okay? Gonna sitcha down, clean ya up, gitcha an ambulance or somethin'..."

"What? No, no," Nick interrupted, a little panicky. "No ambulance, no police... I don't want to go to the hospital..."

"Shh, okay, okay, we're just goin' ta my place, awright?" Ellis backpedaled, not wanting to agitate him. There were enough people looking at them funny as it was.

"All right," the injured man agreed, wilting in relief. "Wait, where's my phone?"

The rest of the ten-minute walk to Ellis' apartment was a perfectly repetitive cycle. He was impressed that Nick was even standing on his own, given the obvious severity of the blow to his head. He couldn't remember what had happened no matter what the southerner told him, which quickly became a mild script that his medic patiently rattled off over and over again. A few new bits of information became available as the shock began to wear off. Nick was from Brooklyn, apparently used to street fights, and had come south to visit his grandmother wasn't staying with her. He was either evasive about or couldn't remember anything else. That, combined with the cash visible during the young man's frequent checks for his cell phone, made Ellis deeply uneasy; but as long as Nick was hurt, it didn't matter.

The mail had come, and there were packages on the porch of Ellis' family's house. He left them there, one hand working his key in the lock and the other still guiding Nick by the arm. The northerner meekly trailed inside, blinking in the gloom until his host threw open the blinds.

"Sit," Ellis ordered, pulling a chair away from the kitchen table. His patient sat. "Now hold on just a sec," he called over his shoulder, ducking into the bathroom to pull out the big guns. He carried a small first-aid kit with him at all times, but at home and in the truck he always maintained a miniature trauma unit. Eighteen years of friendship with Keith had made him quite the paramedic, and now he lugged his satchel to the sink and threw it open.

"This is prob'ly gonna hurt like hell," he warned, soaking a sterile pad in hydrogen peroxide.

"It's okay, this is nothing," Nick said, but still gingerly put a hand to his head. Ellis raised an eyebrow and knelt in front of him, drawing his face forward to dab the blood from his cheek.

Slowly, gently, still repeating the same soothing information, he cleaned off the young man's pale skin. The lump was already turning a nasty red-purple, but the wound wasn't as bad as it had seemed earlier. Yes, it was open and wept profusely, but it was relatively short and there didn't seem to be any serious damage to the eye itself.

"Can yew see outta this side?" he asked, holding up a finger. Two pupils of unequal size focused blearily on it, thin rings of vibrant green standing out vividly against a web of aggravated veins.

"Yeah, it's fine, I can see."

"Does it hurt when I touch yer nose?" Ellis did so, checking for unnatural grinding sensations that would indicate a break. He felt none.

"No."

"Good." He wiped off the last of the gore clotting Nick's chin and threw the now-crimson pad into the garbage. He stood to get an ice pack from the freezer, and bit back a curse when he discovered that they were all gone. Thinking quickly, he instead grabbed a bag of peas and wrapped it in a paper towel.

Nick had started digging in his bag again, muttering about his phone. Ellis touched his shoulder and guided his face up, placing the impromptu cold pack on the injury.

"Hold this," he commanded, and the northerner did as he was told.

"I really got beat, huh? What a trip..." He shook his head slowly as his doctor began cleaning the scrapes bleeding through his ripped jeans.

"How old're yew?" Ellis asked, hoping to distract the clearly disoriented young man.

"Uh... nineteen..." Nick answered, blinking as though he was having trouble remembering. Heck, he probably was.

"An' where'dja grow up?"

"The city. I've done this before, I've been in fights, but oh man..."

"What city?"

"What do you mean, 'what city?' New York, duh."

"Ain't never been there," Ellis deflected the condescension as he daubed maroon streaks from his patient's knee. There was something white poking through the gash. "What's it like?"

"Gotta know what you're doing," Nick began, but stopped at the sound of the door. He tensed like he was ready to bolt; but Ellis, recognizing the stomp of a particular pair of boots, put a firm hand on his leg.

"Hey Keith, I got a friend over," he called. "C'n yew c'mere an' do me a favor?"

"Sure, man, what's- woah." The redhead got a wicked yet sympathetic grin as he entered the kitchen, surveying the scene with knowing hazel eyes. "Looks like somebody gawt hisself on th' wrong side a' Ol' Bessie. Yew been rasslin' tractors, buddy?"

Ellis smirked at the dumbfounded look on Nick's face, but the humor did not last long. "He got inta some kinda fight, hit on th' head real bad. C'n yew call... I dunno, _someone_?" He tried to emphasize the word without mentioning the hospital, not wanting to set the injured man off again. Keith blinked, one scarred eyebrow quirking curiously.

"Sure, another one fer Jenny," he agreed, naming the nurse at St. Joseph's who was best at giving stitches. "Yew know this kid?"

"Nope," his younger friend answered. "Says his name's Nick. Nick, this is Keith."

"Pleasure ta meetcha, Nick," the eldest said, a warm smile on his face. "How'dja gitcherself so fucked up?"

"I... I don't know," the northerner said, lowering the hand that held the ice pack. Ellis rapidly changed the bloody paper towel, then firmly replaced the bag against the side of his face. "How'd this happen?"

"I dunno, I jus' saw yew gettin' yer ass handed to ya."

"And they didn't take anything?"

"Nope, jus' letcha walk away," Ellis gently said for the umpteenth time, and shot Keith a glance that told him to go call a doctor. The redhead retreated to the next room, pulling out his phone on the way.

"But... how'd this happen? How'd it start?"

"I don't know, Nick, yew musta been playin' basketball or somethin' an' th' other guys jus' got stupid."

"But you were there, what did you see? Did you hear anything? Who started it?"

Ellis shook his head slowly as he taped down some gauze, pleased that at least Nick was asking _different _questions now. "All I saw was yew gettin' beat up already. I didn't see how it started. There was some name-callin', maybe somebody said somethin'..."

"Like what?"

"I dunno-"

"C'mon, like what names? Who was saying what?"

"Look, I don' wanna repeat what I heard, okay?" Ellis pleaded, squirming a bit just remembering the words. "I ain't comfortable sayin' that kinda stuff."

"But what-"

"We c'n talk 'bout that later," he said firmly, standing to use his height to his advantage. "Gimme yer head, yew got hit pretty hard..."

He gently ghosted his fingers through the ebony locks, feeling for any more injuries. As he half-listened to Keith on the phone in the other room he talked nonsense at Nick, trying to keep his mind off what had happened so he could calm down. There were two more throbbing goose-eggs on his skull, but with only one cold pack there wasn't much he could do about them. He sighed.

"Can ya take off yer shirt, please?"

Nick didn't make a fuss about it. He merely tugged off his filthy white tee and draped it over the back of another chair, revealing a huge bruise on his right side that Ellis could have sworn was growing even as he stood there looking at it. He shook his head sadly, and knelt down again to apply tender pressure to one rib at a time.

"Yew tell me if ya feel a really sharp pain, like..."

"I've broken stuff before, this is nothing," Nick interrupted.

"That's nice. Holler if yew change yer mind," Ellis said, feeling bone through layers of wiry muscle. The northerner was almost painfully skinny, but as much as he wanted to he couldn't give the poor thing any food. Nothing at all until the real doctors had a look, no matter how strongly he felt like a mother hen.

Fortunately the city boy was right. At worst a couple of ribs were bruised, but not broken. Keith whistled when he returned, actually impressed by the wide boot-shaped swathe of purple, and started washing his hands so he could help.

"Tha's a real beauty," he chuckled, dampening a paper towel in the sink. "D'yew know I don' even git bruises anymore? Too many scars, they jus' don' show up."

"It's true," Ellis affirmed. The southerners glanced at each other and set to work cleaning dried blood off of Nick's torso. "This here first aid is usually fer _him_."

"Shit. What a trip," their patient sighed, letting his ice pack fall. This time it was Keith who changed the wrapping and forced him to hold it in place.

The authorities showed up in no time. At the realization that those distant sirens were drawing closer Nick got tense and upset again, shaking his head and repeating that he didn't want to go to the hospital. Ellis made soothing noises and kept wiping at his face, even though there wasn't any blood left to clean. He knew it was proper policy to send fire and police along with an ambulance, no matter what; but just this once he wished they could have left the engine at home. Though he was slowly recovering, Nick was still in shock and not thinking quite right. The Georgian didn't want to make it any worse.

"Hey, yeah, in here," Keith said, answering the door. "He got clocked a good one, lemme tell ya..."

Suddenly the little kitchen was bursting with people. A plump paramedic nodded approvingly at Ellis' handiwork before beginning her standard examination, asking Nick to follow her finger and other such tests. One of the three policemen pulled out a notepad and beckoned for Ellis to come bear witness. The firemen just tried to stand out of the way.

"Yessir?"

"So what happened?"

Ellis told the officer everything he'd been iterating for Nick, plus a little more in response to new questions. "No sir, I didn't see their faces... Th' one kickin' him was tall, dark skin, white shirt... Naw, I dunno what started it... Yeah, he looked like hell... Yeah, right there in the park, in front a' God an' everybody..."

"Do you know this man? Are you related?"

"Nope."

"Why did you decide to take him with you?"

"What the hell else was I gonna do?" Ellis responded, a little defensively. "He was _bleedin_', yew shoulda seen him 'fore I cleaned him up..."

The officer shared a Look with one of his colleagues, and in knowing unison they sighed "_Good Samaritan_." Meanwhile the third, very tall and heavily muscled, stood aggressively in front of Nick and started asking him questions.

"What's your name?"

"Nick."

"Your _full_ name."

"Nah, man, why should I?"

"Because an officer of the law is asking you."

"Nick, go on, they're here ta help yew," Ellis said gently. "Yew got hit in th' head, they wanna make sure yew remember stuff."

The New Yorker gave him a suspicious glare, but grudgingly spoke. "Nicolas Fields."

"Have you got ID on you?"

"Uh... my passport, it's in my bag..."

"Can I see the bag, please?"

The paramedic handed over the backpack and leaned against the counter with a humorless little smile. "You didn't give him anything to eat or drink, did you?" she whispered to Ellis while the police examined the documents. He shook his head. "Good. Nice job patching him up, by the way."

A pleased spark put some red into his cheeks as he muttered "Thanks."

The interrogation continued when the officers were through taking notes. "What's your address?" the big one demanded. Nick looked a bit vacant.

"I'm from Brooklyn."

"Street. House number."

"You've got my passport right there..."

"Kid, we need to know how hard you got hit. Tell me your address."

"Go on," Ellis urged, then turned to the policeman who had interviewed him earlier. "He was pretty messed up at first, couldn't remember anythin'. He's a lot better already."

Nick continued to grumble. "226, East twenty-sixth Street."

"Who are you staying with in Savannah?"

"My grandmother."

"Where does she live?"

"I don't know."

"Bull-shit you don't know."

"I don't know this area, man! She's not far from here though... By the Burger King. Man, can't I just call her, she'll come get me..."

"No, you have a concussion, you have to go to the hospital and get checked out."

"No, man, I don't want to go and you can't make me..."

"Wanna bet? These cuffs ain't just for show, _man_, and if you're smart you won't call me that again..."

"Woah, hey, that ain't necessary!" Ellis interrupted, unable to tolerate further antagonism. "Look, sir, I don't mean no disrespect or nothin', but he jus' got knocked senseless! Yew c'n yell at him later, but since we're in _my_ house I'd appreciate it if y'all could jus' stay civil fer a while. Please." The tacked-on pleasantry made one of the firemen hide a snicker. The police looked nonplussed as the southerner bent to look Nick in the eye. "Hey, lookit me. It's okay, it's gonna be okay, they're gonna take ya to th' hospital an' th' doctor's gonna treatcha real nice."

"I'm fine, I don't want to go, I've had worse than this," the city boy protested. "And I can't afford it anyway."

"There's this nifty thing called the 'Emergency Room,'" Keith piped up from the doorway, giving the paramedics a nod. They smiled back, knowing the daredevil quite well.

"Yeah, we'll worry 'bout all that shit later," Ellis picked up. "Look, would it help if I went with ya? Ain't nobody gonna hurtcha, we jus' wanna help."

"I don't want to go," Nick repeated weakly.

"Ya gotta. I ain't s'posed ta give yew stitches, an' yew need 'em, like, seriously. Y'know there's a tendon stickin' outta yer knee?"

The burly officer was getting impatient, and ordered that the ambulance chair be brought in. Nick saw it and got upset all over again, and this time there was nothing Ellis could do to stop the argument.

"You either get in this chair, or you get on the ground. It's your choice, buddy."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, but I just... I hate hospitals..."

"That's just too bad for you, pal, get in the chair."

"But-"

"Do it."

"You can't-"

"Watch me!"

"Look, I-"

"No, _you_ look, this gun ain't for show-"

"Jesus, all right! All right!" Nick gave in as soon as the cop's hand strayed towards his hip. "Fuck the chair, I can walk..."

"Watch your mouth, kid."

"You have to get in the chair, hon," the paramedic prompted gently. "It's regulations."

"Can I go with 'em?" Ellis asked, directed at everybody and nobody. Enough chaos reigned that it seemed the inquiry had gone unheard. A fireman drew him aside as the chair was borne out of the room, Nick's fiery green eyes softening just a touch as they found his protector's face. The Georgian stared after him, still overcome by the instinct – no, the _need_ to care for that broken body. Keith's calloused hand landed on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze as the convoy disappeared into the street.

"Hey, listen," the fireman began once his comrades were out of sight. "I know you want to go with them, and that's your choice, but take my advice. You don't want this kid in your life."

Ellis blinked, a little confused and for some reason a little hurt. "That ain't... He needs somebody, y'know? A friendly face?"

"I know what you're thinking, and it's admirable," the older man said. "You did a very good thing here today, not many people would have stood up to help the guy. But end it now. I know the type, and he's bad news."

"You shouldn't have taken him here, either," said the policeman with the notebook as he came back inside. "This is your house, now he knows where you live and what you've got. You've got a back door, he knows that now too."

"I really don' think he's in any shape ta remember this place," Ellis replied, a little shaken by the suggestion in the officer's words. He hadn't thought of it like that.

"Maybe, but next time – if there is a next time – take him to the doctor. And call 911 _immediately_, okay? It doesn't matter if you think somebody else is calling. We'd rather get two calls than none."

"O- okay... I jus'... saw him all messed up, an' got kinda... I went fer first aid, not my phone, y'know?"

"I know," the fireman said. "But in situations like this, you have to think first."

"So here's an opportunity to think," the policeman continued. "Don't go to the hospital with him. They won't let you in anyway if you're not family. Take a day, cool down. You've already gone above and beyond, so don't take any more responsibility on yourself. Especially not this guy. We handle them every day, think they're tough and get the shit kicked out of 'em. He's got six hundred in cash in that backpack, do you wanna guess where that came from?"

"...Not really."

"Well, think about it. Just trust me, you don't want to end up attached. He'll drag you down with him... Oh, and bleach everything. You don't know what his lifestyle is, and hepatitis ain't fun."

Ellis got quiet and stared at his hands, shaken to the core. He hadn't put on gloves before playing triage; but strangely, that wasn't what bothered him.

"Well, fergive me if I don' shake yer hand, sir," Keith quipped as the officers prepared to leave. They smiled at him, and waved instead.

When the front door finally shut the house seemed huge and empty. After a moment of quiet, contemplative appreciation the two friends set about thoroughly cleaning the kitchen. Each and every surface was washed three times: once with peroxide, once with Clorox wipes, and lastly good old soap and water. The trash was taken out, the chair cushion and their clothes went straight into the washing machine, and finally they each took a scalding hot shower with disinfecting soap.

When Ellis' mother came home from work, with his little sister Sadie in tow, she could hardly believe her eyes. She was used to walking in on an unholy mess; but the almost painfully bright cleanliness of the kitchen knocked her for a loop.

"What in Jesus' name...?"

"Er, hi, mom," Ellis said sheepishly from his position on the couch. He and Keith both put down their beer and made sure their towels were firmly tied around their waists.

Mrs. Deveaux, flabbergasted, stood on the threshold between living room and kitchen, three-year-old daughter asleep in her arms. She opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, trying to imagine what kind of disgusting thing they'd cleaned up before she arrived. She came up blank.

"Sorry fer bein' indecent, ma'am, my clothes're in th' wash," Keith explained, and cracked a grin. "Ellis don't have an excuse."

"Yeah, we... I had a kinda excitin' afternoon..." Ellis began.

That night he cried himself to sleep.


End file.
